Crossword
by Twist
Summary: Who needs more than a few throwaway lines to establish a romance? The Patrician confronts the crossword maven Grace Speaker and things evolve, eventually. Journalists, none too unobservant, take notice of things like that.


Crossword

Por: Twist

Disclaimer: The following characters and locales are copyright Terry and Lynn Pratchett. "Twist" does not lay claim to any of these things besides the somewhat contrived plot.

--

Grace Speaker was not a woman to be surprised by much. Not since the last shipment of kittens, anyway. So it was an unusual feeling that overcame her when, one Octeday, a stranger came into the pet shop.

Strangers weren't uncommon, true enough. Sure, every pet shop has its regulars, but regulars do not a profitable business make, Grace knew, which was why she normally didn't flinch upon the entrance of a newcomer to Pellicool Pets. And she didn't flinch today, although today she _did_ look up at the door quizzically when the bell tinkled.

This was only because normally, on an Octeday, the front door was locked, being that the shop was closed. And anyway, it was never open at ten at night even on a weekday.

When she saw who the stranger was, however, she smiled thinly and brushed the hair out of her face, pulling it back into a messy bun. "I wondered when you'd finally get here," she said idly, looking up from the register, where she'd been doing her books. The man in the doorway didn't outwardly appear thrown by her statement, but she recognized he was choosing his words carefully.

"I'd imagine it wouldn't be completely unexpected," Havelock Vetinari said slowly.

"Which is a bit unusual for you, isn't it?" She smirked. "By all means, take a minute to adjust, if need be." She scribbled a figure at the bottom of a column and asked, without looking up, "I'd imagine this is about the crossword?"

She had to credit him with hiding the sarcasm well. Anyone else might have missed it. "No, I was actually rather hoping to find some dog food."

"I'm sure it's a bit tricky to do at ten at night," she said coolly, erasing a prior figure and replacing it. She looked up, expression fairly incredulous. "For a man credited with creating the city as we know it in the most devious, underhanded, scheming methods possible, I really did expect you to be somewhat less transparent."

"And I expected you to be older and to reek of cat urine." He flashed a lightning-quick smile. "Pre-conceived notions have a tendency to find ways to prove you wrong."

Grace laid aside her pencil. "You thought I'd be older? You didn't check before you came?"

Lord Vetinari gave her a long, cool look, perhaps trying to crack her, perhaps weighing his words. When he'd taken away all he was looking for, apparently, he looked back to the rat cages. "That," he said quietly, "is what she said."

Grace's mouth dropped open. She spluttered once. "_Really_?" she finally managed. "I just met you, you rule the city and I own a pet shop, and you've already moved on to dirty jokes?"

Vetinari shrugged and she saw a hint of a smile. "It was the perfect set up. You can't simply ignore those, Miss Speaker."

"No, I suppose you can't," she said faintly. She looked back to her figures, gathered herself, and gestured to the stool across the counter. "Please, sir, have a seat."

The Patrician meandered over and sat comfortably in the stool, hands folded in his lap. Grace looked him over suspiciously. She was having a hard time seeing how he could be physically intimidating. He was a skinny bastard – she probably outweighed him, when she thought about it – he walked with a limp, and he looked like he'd get winded trying to carry a heavy book. Of course, she supposed it wasn't ever that he _looked_ intimidating. It was the rumor, the Assassin's training, and the brains behind it all. She supposed it all started there.

One way to find out about that, then. She smiled her best charming smile. "So let's talk about the crossword."

Vetinari raised an eyebrow. "You start, since you seem to be so fixated on the topic."

Grace's smile faltered. She sat back and crossed her arms. "I haven't been doing them lately. I'm sure you've noticed."

"Your name _was_ curiously absent from the list of completed puzzles this past week," Vetinari conceded.

"Noticed anything else?"

Vetinari looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. "Now that I think about it, I suppose the difficulty level of Octeday's puzzle has increased marginally recently."

Grace scoffed. "_Marginally_?"

"Not more than that," Vetinari said cheerfully. "Because, you see, patterns are beginning to emerge. Oh, certainly the clues are always different, but sometimes the same words are used two weeks in a row! In the same patterns! It would be rather embarrassing for the puzzle-maker, I'd imagine." He watched her.

Grace had never been any good at poker. Her mouth twisted into a scowl. "Listen here, smartass," she growled, prodding the countertop as she spoke, "it's not easy, making those damn puzzles."

Vetinari looked thoughtfully to the ceiling again. "The last time someone called me a smartass," he reflected, "I was twelve years old and I'd just pointed out to the Sports master at the Assassin's Guild that everyone dies eventually so there's no point in trying to prolong life by participating in exercises that are pointless and – what was the word I used then? – oh, right, retarded." He gave her a look. "Forgive me, I was somewhat less refined at twelve years old."

"You were a cheeky little bastard, is what you were," Grace remarked.

He nodded. "Yes, I recall hearing that one as well." He leaned onto the countertop. "So if creating the puzzles are so challenging, why persist?"

"Because I do I better job than Charlotte, gods bless her. She uses a template!"

"You mean you have a more extensive vocabulary than Charlotte," Vetinari corrected. "I won't argue that the words in your puzzles are usually only encountered by those at a fairly advanced reading level. There is, however, something to be said for templates when it comes to crosswords."

"They're lazy!"

"They prevent one from using 'socioeconomic status' and 'parsimonious' in the same combination two weeks in a row." He caught her expression – a mix of indignant rage and slight despair at being caught – and softened slightly. "Perhaps the pressure of running a business and formulating a challenging crossword once a week is too much?"

"Oh don't pretend you came down here to express concern about my welfare," she sighed, resting her chin in her hand. "You're right though, it is a bloody bugger doing up those things without a template."

"So use one," Vetinari suggested with a shrug.

Grace gave him a sideways look. "Why'd you come all the way down here at ten o'clock at night? Just to express concern about my well-being and, incidentally, about the quality of the crossword? To find out if you were right that I've been making them up?"

"A bit of both," Vetinari admitted. "Well," he said hurriedly, "I mean, not really about your well-being, being that I didn't even know you personally before thirty minutes ago. But nevertheless. Yes."

Grace smiled a genuine, albeit small, smile. "A little tongue-tied there, chief?"

"What? No, I can't imagine where you'd get an idea like that," Vetinari said quickly, fixing Grace with a look that wasn't quite hard enough to make her feel like she ought to be worried.

She thought for a minute. "You didn't know me at all before you walked through that door," she pointed out. "I've never even seen you before in my life. Other than on the money, of course."

"Oh, but I rather imagine I knew you to some extent. After all, your unfailing correct puzzles lent at least some clue as to your disposition, and the fact that you turned them in at all pointed to a slight inclination toward the competitive. And when you started making the puzzles, well, what better way to learn about how a person thinks than to see what sort of problems they create for others?" He shrugged. "But I suppose yes, other than what I'd surmised from our like interest in the crossword, no, I did not know you at all before this little meeting." Grace nodded and looked down to her figures.

"Fancy a drink?" she asked in the lull that followed Vetinari's little speculation.

Vetinari sat up a little straighter, although she noticed he always had a bit of a slouch. "I shouldn't linger here," he said. "Unfortunately, everything I do seems to come under scrutiny."

Grace nodded, got up, and walked to the door behind the counter, disappearing into the back room. The was a quiet _clink_ of glass. She leaned back around the doorway, two glasses in hand and a sheet of paper, covered in boxes, clues and words. "Fancy a drink back here then?" She raised an eyebrow. "If you're so smart you can help me put together next week's crossword."

At first, Vetinari looked somewhat affronted by the suggestion. Then slowly, he looked to her, and to the crossword and the glasses, and back over his shoulder, out through the windows on the front of the shop. He sighed. "Alright."

--

Some time later . . .

--

The Editor of the _Times_ scanned the proof copy of the afternoon paper. As he flipped through the C section – filled with ads, classifieds, comics and puzzles – he paused on the list printed by the crossword. It was the list of people who had managed to submit a correct, complete crossword last Octeday. He frowned. "Sacharissa?" he called.

"Yes?" his wife turned the corner, notebook in hand, pen tucked neatly behind her ear.

"Does this list seem shorter to you, of late?"

She slid into her chair and set her notebook on her desk. "Which list is that?"

"The list of completed crosswords," William said, scanning down it. "I could swear we used to have more than five or ten correct every Octeday." His brow furrowed. "And come to think of it, I don't see Vetinari in here."

"He's had a bit of a week, William," replied Sacharissa, not really paying attention. "The whole trade agreement with Genua and all. I'm sure it's been keeping him busy."

William, however, was only half-listening. He was riffling through last Wednesday's paper. "He wasn't on it last week either," he said, digging through the months-old stack of papers by his desk. "Or the week before it." There was a pause. "Or for almost three months, really. Maybe longer, I can't find any papers from before then."

Sacharissa looked up. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I suppose that is a bit odd." She leaned back. "It's just the Octeday crossword, isn't it?"

"Yeah." William thought. "I'll go have a word with Charlotte. She keeps tabs on this sort of thing."

"Oh, good, I'll come with you," Sacharissa got to her feet and followed him out of the office. "I needed to ask her about the local color feature article for Saturday. She's written something on that flower shop down Zephyr Street and I wanted to check the details."

Charlotte's office was one of the less tidy in the _Times_ building, and that was saying something. William had to throw his shoulder against the door to get it to open. Piles of crosswords and templates rustled angrily. "Oh, Mr. de Worde! So sorry, let me clear some things out for you." The slight woman was heard moving about in the office, and there was a crash. The door came open much more easily. William finally caught full view of Charlotte, standing nervously in a clear patch, papers still floating to the ground(1) behind her. "Something I can help you with?"

"Charlotte, have you noticed anything unusual about the Octeday crossword recently?" William asked quickly, before Sacharissa could go off on some tangent about flowers. Charlotte's face lit up like a Hogswatch tree.

"You'd noticed!" she said happily. "I didn't think you did the crossword, Mr. de Worde!"

"Well, er, I just. You know, take a look on occasion," he said, clearing his throat.

"So you've noticed the difficulty!" she said happily. "Of course, I've had many complaints about it." She gestured behind her to the piles of paper, as if William might, of course, be able to see exactly what she was talking about.

"Yes, er, yes, I had noticed that," he said slowly. "They seem to have become even more difficult than usual. There are fewer correct solutions every week, yes . . . ?" He let the sentence hang, hoping she would fill in the rest for him.

"Yes!" Charlotte bounced up and down on her toes, oversized flower-print sweater billowing around her tiny frame. "Even Lord Vetinari hasn't been able to send in a correct one for the past few months and he almost always was first one in! Well, he and Grace Speaker down in Pellicool Steps, but she stopped sending one when I started asking her to actually, you know, _make_ the Octeday crossword. She's much better at it, apparently."

"Yes, of course," William said waving a hand, "I've heard you say something about her before. So his Lordship _has_ been sending one in then? Just wrong ones?"

Charlotte shook her head. "None at all sir, none for months." She gasped, and behind her thick glasses her pale blue eyes flew wide. "You don't think he's ill, do you? It never occurred to me, should we do something? Is someone poisoning him again?"

Sacharissa sighed. "I saw him this morning, Charlotte, at the city council meeting. I can say almost for a fact that he is not being poisoned."

"Ah, well he's probably just busy then," she said cheerfully. "Or maybe he can't figure out Grace's crossword! He did at the beginning, you know, but she was still getting the whole thing sorted out – some weeks she would use the same word two weeks in a row! Never used a template either, not once. She got it sorted though, roundabout the same time his Lordship stopped sending any in. They got much more difficult then too." She smiled wanly. "Must have started using templates. I told her she could borrow mine, but she never would accept. Probably bought her own."

William and Sacharissa exchanged a look. Journalist minds churned.

"You said Grace's improvement and Lord Vetinari's lack of submissions occurred around the same time?" Sacharissa confirmed.

"Yes!" And again, the girl's eyes flew wide. "Oh my gods, do you think he's actually making the crossword now? But I get all the puzzles in her hand!" She squealed. "Maybe they've teamed up! An unstoppable crossword machine!"

William and Sacharissa exchanged another look, but there was quite a different meaning behind this one. William smiled and nodded slowly. "Yes, wouldn't that be something," he said delicately, backing out of the room. "Well, thank you very much, Charlotte, we were just wondering about that, aha, you know how things get in the Editor's office. Speculation and all that. I wouldn't bother saying anything about it to anyone."

"Of course not, Mr. de Worde, it's just a silly fantasy," Charlotte beamed. "I'm sure they don't even know each other."

"Oh certainly, ahaha," William said, pulling the door closed. "Thank you Charlotte, keep up the good work!" The door closed with a click. William turned to his wife, who raised her eyebrows. "Has it been a while since you've been down to Pellicool Steps?"

"Altogether too long, I think," Sacharissa said. "I think we should take a walk down that way tonight, yes?"

"Excellent plan."

"You're taking me to dinner first, though." She sniffed. "Can't be running about after that man all the time, hunting down his personal life on an empty stomach."

--

(1) This word being used rather generously, of course. The actual floor was not visible for more than five square feet total, throughout the whole office.

--

The night was cool, and so it was that William and Sacharissa were strolling down Pellicool Steps in their coats, idly looking into all the shop fronts and most definitely _not_ lingering on any one shop. Most of the windows were dark, and nothing but the window displays could be seen. Two windows down, however, a warm glow spilled out onto the cobbles. William and Sacharissa ducked into a side alley. Sacharissa pulled her notebook out.

"Do you see anything?" William asked, craning his neck to see into the shop.

"Only puppies – look, how cute! – and stop being so obvious, we'll be spotted."

"We don't even know he's there," William grumbled, ducking behind a dustbin when someone walked by on the street. "And besides, would they be sitting in the front room, really? Where someone could see?"

Sacharissa snorted. "Oh, yes, wouldn't want anyone to see Lord Vetinari doing something so scandalous as compiling a crossword."

"With a woman!"

"With the woman who makes the crossword for the _Times_. Honestly, William, you're being ridiculous. You're lucky I'm warm and full from supper or we'd be headed straight home."

There was silence for a moment, and then a sharp intake of breath from the editor. "He's there," William breathed. "The damn puppy laid down, I can see him there. He's at the counter."

"Are you sure?" Sacharissa leaned around the bins to see across the street. "Could just be a skinny guy in black. Lots of those in the city."

"A skinny guy in black that happens to look _exactly_ like the Patrician?" William asked as the man in the shop was briefly visible in profile.

"It could be Charlie," Sacharissa noted sullenly.

"Charlie's an idiot, dear, I doubt he could even define what a crossword is."

"Oh hush. What are they doing?"

"Um. Drinking, out of mugs it looks like, and writing."

"So they're doing the crossword, probably."

William scowled. "Probably. Are you writing this down?"

"No, of course not," his wife scoffed. "Is this what passes for news in this city these days? We're the _Times_, William, not some common gossip rag. Who cares what innocuous, stupid things Lord Vetinari does on his Thursday nights? Let him have his fun."

"But this could be a relatioship!"

"They're drinking out of mugs, you said?"

"Yes!"

"So that's coffee or tea, and they're _making a crossword puzzle_. So they're not in a relationship, William. They're mildly obsessive hobbyists. Honestly, can we go? I'm freezing."

While William and Sacharissa de Worde bickered outside over the newsworthiness of the scene unfolding in the pet shop, Grace and Vetinari bent over the sheet full of boxes and scribbles. Grace wrote another clue, and looked to the dictionary. "There are journalists outside," she said dryly.

Lord Vetinari did not turn to look. "William de Worde?"

"And his wife, by the look of it. She looks less than happy about being there. They're crouching behind some dustbins."

"Did they notice you looking?"

"No. They look like they're arguing."

Vetinari sighed. "For a press that thinks it's so very radical, they're certainly very reliable in their reactions."

Grace sounded mildly concerned as she tore herself away from the crossword and played her turn in the game of Scrabble that was going on at the same time. "You're not worried they'll print this?"

"Why would I be worried? What headline are the going to put on that? 'Patrician Makes Crossword with Pet Shop Owner, City Scandalized.' Personally I find it rather unlikely. That's not a word."

"Is too."

He gave her a long look. "There are some words out there without vowels in them. That is not one of them."

Grace scowled. "Can't help it if all I have are L's."

"So you swap, you don't try to pull one over on me," Vetinari snickered. "When was the last time that worked?"

"Last week. 'Frackin'."

"That's not a word?"

"It's a vernacular."

"I thought it was a food."

"You need to get out more." She surreptitiously glanced out into the street. "They're still arguing."

He sighed. "Let them, then. I expect de Worde is claiming that this is expressly a newsworthy item, falling under the category of 'Lord Vetinari doing something besides simply breathing,' while Sacharissa is making the argument that the _Times_ is not some common gossip column and I'm just pursuing a mildly interesting obsession."

"It's just like the _Thud!_ games with Lady Margolotta," Sacharissa was saying outside, in a severe, if hushed, tone. "You don't think we ought to report on every movement of the board, every letter from Überwald, or every single hint of Lady Margolotta, do you?"

"That's completely different," William hissed, rummaging through his pockets for his notebook. "He hasn't even got Drumknott with him! He's gone rogue, Sacharissa."

"He has not _gone rogue_ William de Worde, and if keep up this ridiculousness –" a word she punctuated by snatching the newfound notebook out of his hands "- then I will most certainly _not_ be sharing the bed with you tonight."

"You don't have to sleep on the couch over this," he grumbled, watching as she tucked the notebook into her handbag.

"I didn't say I would be the one on the couch." She gave him a cool look and sniffed. William scowled.

"It does look like a date though."

"It's not a date, William," Sacharissa sighed. "Trust me. If it were a date, for example, I assure you Miss Speaker would not have served the beverages in old football mugs, and she might have done something more for her appearance."

"You mean primping? _You_ never primp when we go out."

"Shows how much you know." Sacharissa rose from her crouch and helped William to his feet. "Besides, do you think Havelock Vetinari would be seen on a date? Really?"

"What, so because he's doing something blatantly, it's not suspicious?" William took her hand inhis and they strolled away from the pet shop, down the street. Though he was still arguing his point, both knew that the real argument was over. "I don't know, dear, sounds just like him, when you get down to it."

"In politics, maybe," she agreed, "but in his personal life? Good gods, William, it's still under debate whether or not he even _has_ one. So that's what we found out tonight, good for us, do you really think we ought to print it?"

"I mean . . ."

"No," she cut in. "There are some things that are better left alone, and this is one of them. If he wanted people to talk about it, he'd make sure they did, and then we could sell all the papers we'd like."

"I suppose you're right," William sighed, his breath rising in a cloud. They walked on in silence for a minute, through the city center, back to the _Times_ offices and their apartment above. "Am I still sleeping on the couch tonight, then?"

Sacharissa sighed the sigh of the much put-upon. "I suppose not. It's a bit chilly tonight anyway – it would be unkind to do that to you."

"You're too kind."

--

"They left," Grace said in the shop not half a mile away. "She took his notebook away from him."

Vetinari smiled. "I rather thought that was how the whole thing would turn out."

"Wonder what she said to him," Grace mused. "He seemed pretty adamant right up until the end there."

Vetinari shrugged. "I'm sure I don't know. Probably whatever couples say to each other to settle arguments. Some sort of passive-aggressive assertion or something." He looked to the Scrabble board. "This game would be so much simpler if you didn't insist on cheating."

"Now who's passive-aggressive?"

"I'd qualify that more as aggressive than passive," Vetinari said, playing a word that Grace had never seen before in her life.

"'Lawl' is so not a word."

"Is too."

"Is it slang then?"

A pause. "Maybe."

"Put it back, you loser." She looked over the board as he sipped his coffee. "Are we in a relationship?" she asked idly.

He raised his eyebrows. "Any kind of connection, association or involvement qualifies as a relationship," he said leaning onto the counter. "So yes."

She gave him a long look. "You know what I'm talking about, stop deflecting."

He leaned back, watching her with a measure of consideration. "Hypothetically, say we were. You know I have a commitment to the city first and foremost. Where would it go from there?"

"Have you ever tried it?"

"No," he said, completely honestly. "I can't imagine it would be very fair to the other party, though."

"Sharing you with a city, you mean?" She breathed out quietly through her nose. "And do you think it's unfair to Sergeant Angua? Or Lady Sybil?"

"I –" He stopped and, visibly, thought about it. "No, no I don't think it is. Not to them."

"So what would make you different?" She waited for him to answer. He didn't. She played her word. Gra.

"Other languages don't count," he said quietly.

She gave him a long look. "Where are we going, Ankh-Morpork?"

He looked to the board and back to her and, finally, shrugged. "I don't know."

She smiled. "So is that a 'nowhere?'"

"No."

"Is it a 'somewhere?'"

He looked at her for a minute and a faint smile – a real smile, though, which was slightly crooked and completely absent-minded – appeared. "Sounds like it."

She smiled and leaned in. They met in the middle.

--

Oh hell yes, they're official on facebook now, bitches.

_Oh now I'm gonna spread the news that if I keep on gettin reviews, then y'all can keep on usin me, til you use me up. Until you use me up. Talkin bout you usin me but it all depends on who reviews, it ain't too bad the way you're usin me cause I sure am usin you to get your sweet reviews. Oh, your sweet reviews._

--


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